


Faulty Connection

by Nymm_at_Night



Series: Wetware [2]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Apologies, Bonding, Can be read as a sequel to Digital Bond or as a stand alone work!!!, Drug Dealing, Forgiveness, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Is the ship name for these two, Like a dick measuring contest but with culpability, Low continuity!, Payless Shoe Source, Post-Canon, Post-Squip, SQUIP solidarity, Tying off plot threads, We are not fucking up with the names again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: A pair of cyborgs walk into a shoe store. Rich wishes that was the beginning to a bad joke, and not literally the thing that is actually happening in his life, at this very moment.





	Faulty Connection

**Author's Note:**

> You know that thing in the bootleg, where Jeremy flinches away from Rich on reflex when he raises his hand? Yeah. I think about that a lot.
> 
> Anyways, I want to be the first to apologize that this doesn't match the tense used in Digital Bond. And for, you know, the rest of the fic.

The glowing orange sign glares down at them like a goddamn mall-based Eye of Sauron, and Rich feels his jaw clench as he stares up at the stupid white letters. _“Shoe Source._ ” Jesus Christ, who the fuck even calls anything that. It’s not even accurate, like, the shoes don’t come from here, they’re shitty rejects from better, fancier stores that didn’t sell, and—

“Hey, uh, Rich?”

Rich blinks and looks up at Jeremy, who has his hand a few inches from Rich’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Oh, uh—” Jeremy awkwardly combs a hand through his hair, making the back stand up in a fluffy mess. “You just— I don’t know, you were zoning out? Sorry.”

God, this is why he needs a SQUIP. Needed.

Wait, no, no he doesn’t. Christ, his medication’s been keeping the stupid pill quiet for more than a month now, and it’s done fucking nothing, because he’s still an absolute tool. “It’s fine.”

“Are you…” Jeremy gives him a long look, teeth digging into his lip. “Okay? You don’t have to come, I just—”

“Relax Tall-Ass. It’s just a fucking shoe store. We go in, we go out, we make sure little Timmy and Suzy don’t start popping pills. That simple,” Rich says, rolling his shoulders and working out some of the stiffness in his scars. “Come on.”

Jeremy nods, and Rich follows him in.

Payless looks exactly like it did the last time Rich was there, handing over enough money to make his head spin for a dozen pills. The SQUIP had said it would be a great way to generate extra income, start saving up for college and plastic surgery, as well as creating a stockpile in case Dad did something crazy. It was so easy to follow its instructions, swagger into the store with a stack of crisp twenties in a rubber band, that Rich didn’t even question it.

It’s kind of funny, in a sick sort of way, that after all that’s happened, he’s right back where this whole mess started.

Creepy Douchebag, or Harold, as he found out after pestering his SQUIP for the gazillionth time, is still working behind the counter. Jackass looks the same as ever— bushy beard to hide his weak chin, black hoodie and dark shades, like they make him look mysterious and not like a complete jackass, and of course, perfect posture, like he didn’t look enough like a fucking hive mind spokesperson— and that fucking pisses Rich off. Here’s the asshole who fucking started this shit with his whole “grey oblong pill” pitch, because yeah, Rich’s a douchebag, but at least when he started selling drugs to minors, he was at least fucking teenager. When it’s some thirty year old creep, that shit’s just weird.

And what sort of fucking warning is “Untested Technology”? Who the fuck tells gives that as the only warning for _a computer that literally connects to your brain?_ Untested doesn’t fucking cover it. If fucking telling you to kick the bucket counts as a goddamn glitch, then that piece of shit has more bugs than a Bethesda game. And then this jackass hands a bunch of drugs to some kid who doesn’t look like he’d ever hurt a fly, like he thinks he’ll be able to handle it, like it won’t fuck up _literally everything._

The weird surge of vitriolic protectiveness throws him off, and he glances at Jeremy, like his face is going to explain everything. Rich can still remember his fist crashing into that jaw sophomore year— his fingers twitch involentarily— but the baby fat’s gone and there’s no resemblance to a goddamn cartoon deer anymore. He looks… colder. Not as bad as he did before the play or in the hospital, but even if he doesn’t have whole twitchy-ass-Pavlovian-bullshit look, he doesn’t really look like the kid Rich used to hurt. Jeremy’s face is harder, his lips a thin line, and there’s a fire in his eyes Rich has never seen before.

He follows Jeremy up to the counter, looks at Jeremy, and then at Dipshit Harold with his scraggly-pube beard, and reminds himself this doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t some grand friendship beginning. This is common fucking decency, a little bit of repayment for ruining Jeremy’s life. Looking back on it, he can see the goddamn threads of the SQUIP’s plans, tying the two of them together like a conspiracy theorist's board, or puppet strings. Rich feels bile rise in his throat whenever he remembers how easily he went along with it all, like a fucking trained dog, but at least this might help to make things right.

Harold still isn’t looking at them. Jeremy and Rich exchange a glance, and Rich shrugs. Jeremy slams his palm down on the little bell on the counter, hard enough that the noise echos around the empty store.

“Can I— oh. You’re back,” Harold says, turning around. He doesn’t even bother to sound ashamed, like he doesn’t notice the mesh patterned scars on Rich’s neck or the way that Jeremy looks so damn tired and cold. Dumbass. Then again, the only reason this whole plan can work is because Harold’s not stupid enough to get high on his own supply, so pros and cons. “You here for the stock? My supplier’s getting spooked, so we’re looking at five hundred a piece instead of four, got it?”

“That’s fine,” Rich says, even as every bargaining tip the SQUIP ever told him rings in his ears, telling him how to swindle, bargain and extort to maximize his margins. “Just give us the stuff.”

Harold nods, and Rich hopes he isn’t going to ruin everything again.

“Big Japan’s getting antsy,” Harold says as he leads them through the aisle of women’s shoes, sizes eight to twelve. Rich stares at the opened shoe boxes, eyes flicking from pastel sneakers to stripper heels to the world’s ugliest pair of flip flops, seriously, those fucking things are like Crocs if rocs had 5 straps and were bright pink. With sequins. “They said that they were having server issues on the whole east coast, but I’m glad you two didn’t get affected.”

Rich makes a noncommittal noise, because criticizing a ghastly pair of shoes is pretty much all that’s keeping his temper in check. He furrows his brow and turns his glare on a pair of sandals with what looks like a feather boa glue gunned to the heel, because otherwise he’s going to deck Harold in his stupid fat face.

“Really? Mine’s been fine.” Jeremy says, sounding so aloof, Rich does a double take. His face is trained into careful calm, but Rich can see the sweat on the back of his neck and the way his fingers are jittering at his side. He wants to take them and hold Jeremy’s hand until he stops scratching nervous lines into his jeans, but Harold’s right in front of them, and Rich is sure that handholding definitely isn’t SQUIP approved. Besides, that’s overstepping by a fucking mile.

Harold nods, unlocking the backroom with his keyring. “Probably a version difference. They started rolling out the beta, but we’re still stocking alpha, and who even knows what’s up with the new version— I mean they even said they’re reducing some of the conditioning features and linking functions or something, so you guys must’ve gotten the good end of the deal. Especially since they’re thinking about cutting me off.”

Harold laughs bitterly, walking over to the shelving in the corner and pulling down the box of women's running shoes from the top. The back room looks the same as ever— dingy, cramped, with a cheap plastic table serving as a desk in one corner— but Rich feels even more nervous in it than he had the first time he came back here.

“Cutting you off?” Jeremy says, and touches his temple with the hand that’s not fidgeting behind his perfectly arched back. “It says that the… greater New York area has a large target audience? I mean, why would you want to waste all that potential?”

Jeremy sends Rich a panicked look over Harold’s head, but Rich can only shrug, because he’s not a fucking theater major, you’re the actor, so why are you looking at me?

“Yeah, right? It’s ridiculous,” Harold says, waving his hand. “I’ve got fucking rent to pay, and they think they can pull out of a goddamn contract over a few issues? It’s fucked up, that’s what it is.”

Jeremy steps on Rich’s sneaker, just hard enough to get his attention, and Rich hides his wince with a nod. “Mine said— says I can’t get through high— college without the extra cash.”

Fuck. The SQUIP’s stupid speaking pattern is still burned into his brain, enough that he can hide his lisp, but SQUIP users don’t have to correct themselves, unless it’s to artfully reveal some sort of dark, tragic, brooding past via Freudian slip.

Harold raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. “Anyways, how much are you buying? Same as before?”

Rich nods, thankful that the conversation’s looped back to something familiar. “Yeah, twelve.”

Jeremy shakes his head frantically, and taps his wrist. Rich shrugs at Harold, who’s grabbing some ziploc bags from the shelf, and Jeremy mouths something and— oh. Jeremy wants him to stall.

Well, fuck.

“So, how's business going?” Rich says, because it’s not like he and Harold had friendly chats before, and he doesn’t even have fucking robot feeding him small talk, and this is better than nothing.

Harold scoffs. “Lots of salary men in cheap suits telling other salary men in cheaper suits to go buy women’s running shoes. If Big Japan doesn’t fuck us over, it’s smooth sailing.”

“Smooth sailing,” Rich nods, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. God, in between trying to sweep together what’s left of who he used to be into a fucking personality, and planning this whole… _thing_ with Jeremy, he had forgotten just how big this mess was.

“Wish I didn’t have to do anything to get customers,” Rich says, and the words taste fetid on his lips. “Would have— would make my life easier.”

Jeremy gives a subtle thumbs up. Good, Rich is still able to act like a jackass. _Yay._

“Yeah, well, good luck with the whole direct marketing shit,” Harold laughs, putting the box down. “Thanks for taking care of all the suicidal teenagers.”

“What?” Rich says, and tries to think of ugly shoes and the plan and everything that isn’t the self-satisfied smirk Harold is wearing.

“Look man, I can live without any of this bullshit teen angst. I mean god, I don’t want to deal with all this mommy didn't love me, Sarah kissed Bobby shit,” Harold chuckles, like Rich and him are sharing some jackass-exclusive inside joke, and nods his head towards Jeremy, who’s examining the box of pills. “I mean, thanks for the business and all, but it was pretty depressing looking at him. Couldn’t you have sent someone less pathe—”

Maybe Rich’s arms aren’t as strong as they used to be, not after months in bandages and physical therapy, and maybe the pinkie on his right hand doesn’t really bend like it did before the fire bit through his skin, but he’s still enough to grab Harold by the collar and yank him forward. “Shut the fuck up.”

Harold’s glasses are knocked askew, so Rich can see his expression— shock first, then anger. “What the fuck kid?”

“Shut up, asshole.” Rich can’t lift him up like he used to do to Jeremy, but he can give him a good shake, and the way Harold’s glasses fall on the floor feeds that angry, festering part of him that’s always been there, even when he was just a freshman picking fights he couldn’t win. “Go eat a dick, you fucking psycho.”

It’s a shit insult, and both of them know it, but Rich has never been good at thinking when he’s angry. He shakes him by the collar, but Harold looks unperturbed. “You’re the one attacking me, _pythco._ I would have thought that your SQUIP would keep you from fucking up like this.”

Harold falls back, tripping over the cheap plastic table as Rich shoves him away. It feels good, watching the fucker go ass over teakettle, crushing his own glasses under him, but then Harold lunges forward and Rich blinks and suddenly he’s seeing spots and tasting metal and feeling sickening, grinding pain across his face.

Harold’s fist feels like redemption, and Rich wants to drown himself in it, but Jeremy’s got his sleeve and a box under his arm and he’s pulling him out of Payless and into the empty mall, and there’s nothing but fluorescent lights and the sounds of Harold shouting and their feet on the tile as they run. He’s probably leaving a bloodtrail like New Jersey’s own fucking Hansel and Gretel, but he’d sooner die than follow the path back to this shit hole.

The sunlight is blinding as they burst through the doors, and thank god Rich thought to park close to the door. He scrambles into the driver’s seat, jams the key in and guns it as Jeremy clicks on his seatbelt. He can see Harold at the door to the mall, shouting and running, but that doesn’t matter, because Harold could be the fucking president, and he wouldn't slow down. Rich knows that he’s going too fast for a parking lot, and he winces as he takes a turn too sharply and the cement base of a lamppost grinds down the side of the car, but fuck it— they’re free.

Rich pulls out of the lot and onto the highway and just drives. He drives until the Menlo Park Mall disappears behind the trees and the freeway, until the adrenaline fades and he feel the pain across his face again. Sometimes, when the road is empty and straight, he glances at Jeremy in the shotgun seat, holding onto the dented shoe box like it’s a bomb.

He turns off the highway after Metuchen turns into Edison into Milltown, and drives until he finds the big, empty lot of some dead looking office park. He steers around to the back of the building, so that the car isn’t visible from the road, and finally, finally parks.

Rich lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and gets out, Jeremy following behind him. He doesn’t think that Harold called the police— there’s no sirens, and besides, what would he even tell them? _Sorry officer, a bunch of cyborg teenagers stole my massive pile of illegal, undocumented pills. No, officer, they’re not drugs if they’re from Japan,_ yeah, that’ll go over swimmingly.

Rich laughs bitterly and cringes when pain shoots through his across his face, sharp and hot. Cursing, he sits on the hood of the car, watching blood drip sluggishly onto his pant leg. He grins. The SQUIP would hate that.

The fiberglass next to him bows as Jeremy sits. “H—hey, uh, are you okay?”

Rich shrugs and looks up.

Jeremy looks like ass. His hair’s sticking up like a rat’s nest from sweat, and his skin is a patchy mixture of red and white under a sheen of sweat, but at least he’s still here, with the box folded in his arms and his brow furrowed in concern. He lifts a hand, waits for Rich to nod, and touches the aching skin, feather light. “Can you breathe through your nose?”

Rich tries. “It’s like, blocked. Hurts too.”

Jeremy smiles shakily, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I kinda guessed. Your nose is broken.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah, uh, shit,” Jeremy says, sighing. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Rich tries to think all the way back to when he first got his car. “Yeah. It’s under the driver’s seat. Maybe the shotgun one.”

Jeremy nods and vanishes behind the car. He takes the box with him too, and Rich can see it stuffed under his arm as he digs through the backseat.

A few minutes later, he comes back and clambers back onto the hood of the car. The first aid kit looks pretty much the same as when Rich first bought it, cheap red plastic and everything, and Jeremy is already taking off the lid and sifting through it. “Okay, so, uh, I need to clean that. This might sting a little, okay?”

Rich snorts, which really doesn’t help with the whole throbbing pain thing, but Jeremy’s mother henning over a couple _alcohol wipes_ after everything they’ve been through is pretty funny. Jeremy just huffs and rips open a packet and _okay Jesus Christ, ouch._

Jeremy chuckles a little bit at Rich’s overblown wincing, and Rich rolls his eyes and does his best to relax and not totally puss out over fucking first aid. It looks like Jeremy’s trying to do the same, easing forward to get a better look, and wow, he is really close to his face. Jeremy's tongue pokes out between his teeth while he dabs Rich’s nose with alcohol and creams, long fingers gentle and soft over the broken skin. If Rich shuts his eyes, he can see the starlight on his cheekbones, the wind in his hair and the quiet awe as he stared at the night sky, back on the roof. Maybe if he could cover his ears, he would hear their feet knocking against the asphalt shingles and the SQUIP whispering lies into their ears.

That night didn’t mean anything though, because desperation and scrambling in the dark for someone to lean on isn’t friendship. He needs to leave that back in autumn and in that silent hospital room. Rich lets out a long, shaky breath, like he’s trying to get rid of every stupid thought in one exhale.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says, pulling back. “I’ll be more gentle, okay?”

“No, it’s fine. You’re good at this,” Rich says, for lack of anything better to say. Jeremy catches his eye, and _oh._

Guilt boils in the pit of his stomach. God, this is going to finish what the fire started. Well, time to get his will in order.

“I’m sorry.” Jeremy blinks at him, but Rich keeps going. “And not like in a ‘this fucking computer told me to tell you that so that I could fuck up your life way.’ Like, I’m actually really fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy says calmly, taping a pad of gauze to Rich’s face. “We’re going to have to go by the hospital for this, I think. Unless you want me to brace it myself, which uh, maybe not the smartest idea, but it’s uh, your nose, so like, it’s your choice?”

“Don’t you even care?”

Jeremy shrugs, smoothing the medical tape down. “I appreciate the apology, and stuff, but uh, I already forgave you. It’s uh, chill.”

“What?”

“We’re cool. I forgive you.”

Rich gapes at Jeremy. “I spent a year smashing in your teeth, then sold you a drug that abused the living shit out of you and tried to take over the world! How the fuck can you just—”

Rich shakes his hands, like that’ll put whatever the sick feeling climbing up his throat is into words.

Jeremy sighs, taking off his gloves and rubbing at his face with his palm. “I’m not going to hold what you did while you had that thing in your head over you. I’d be a hypocrite. Besides, you were there for me, when no one else was.”

“I wasn’t— I ruined your life!” Rich snarls, because what the fuck, and Jeremy’s face finally changes from infuriating calm.

“ _I ruined my life._ I did that! You don’t get to take that away from me!” Jeremy shouts, and Rich wants to scream about every thrown punch and insult, because no, it’s not Jeremy’s fault, it never was, but the way Jeremy sounds almost proud stops him. “And if Christine and Michael can forgive me for that, I can forgive you.”

“Dude, you don’t have to be my fucking friend because Headphones forgave you,” Rich growls, and yeah, this is making him irrationally angry, because having the whole solidarity, AAA meetings, braiding each other’s hair and crying about their feelings bullshit dangled in front of his nose is somehow worse than it being not even in the equation. He knows that every half assed sleepover and blunt passed between them during lunch, when they’d sneak out to the bleachers with Chloe and Jake was just some fucked up playdate set up to maximize social inclusion or whatever the fuck didn't matter, but it still stings to have Jeremy try and pretend like he actually cared about it. “That ain’t how this shit works, Tall-ass.”

“Y-yeah, well, how does it?” Jeremy says, his voice sharp. “Am I supposed to just sit here and hate you for the rest of my life? Am I supposed to punch you or hurt you or ignore you or _what_?”

His head is filled with static and crackling, and god, Jeremy’s still looking dead at him with those sharp blue eyes, and that’s so alien, and Rich just shouts, “I don’t know! Maybe! I fucked you up, Jeremy! I fucked everyone up!”

“Rich.” Jeremy’s hand, with it’s chipped blue polish and spidery fingers, is warm on Rich’s. After a moment of not pulling away, Jeremy gives him a squeeze. “I’m sick of us— of everyone— hurting each other. I’m not letting myself do that again. It wasn’t your fault.”

Rich’s breath hitches, but Jeremy keeps going. “This is me forgiving you.”

“I don’t get a say in that?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Rich says, staring at the box, because meeting Jeremy’s eyes hurts. There are about twenty SQUIPS in it, shining in the cold winter sun, like birdshot. It’s weird, seeing them just roll around in the bottom of the cardboard box. If they’d been packaged in foam and neat little containers, like any other piece of technology, it’d be different, but like this, it just feels dirty.

Back then, before Jeremy and the party and the play, he didn’t really think of himself as a drug dealer. Life improver, yeah, occasionally exploiting human suffering for a quick buck, fair enough, but at least he had a reason, passed out on the couch with a bottle. Now the term comes back, bitter on his tongue.

He takes one pill out of the box, staring at it. The shiny, metallic surface gleams, the sunlight glinting across the “SQUIP” that’s pressed into the pill. This stupid fucking tic tac is a goddamn marvel of technology and a revolutionary AI and all that bullcrap, and it’s sitting in the palm of his hand. This thing could redefine life and scientific progress and all that nerd shit, and they were using it to make a quick buck prototyping it on stupid teenagers.

What the fuck.

The thing that left Jake homeless, and him and Jeremy like this, is sitting between his thumb and his index finger, and there’s nothing it can do. It’s fucking powerless, a goddamn inert piece of metal with no dipshit to pilot like it’s the goddamn mouse from Ratatouille, no diodes or electric shocks or fucking Kermit to tell him how much of a disappointment, how much of a monster he is. It can’t hurt them like this. It can’t fucking hurt them.

Everytime he thinks it, it sounds less like a reassurance and more like a rallying cry. There’s something hot and sticky on his cheeks, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s grinning, even if it feels more like he’s just showing his teeth. It doesn’t mean anything anyways, because without eyes to look through, the stupid thing can’t even see. It’s helpless.

Rich stands, drops the SQUIP on the ground, thinks of the fire and Jake and Jeremy, and grinds his heel down on the thing that ruined their lives. There's a little pop and creak, and when he lifts his foot, there's nothing left but twisted metal and silicon powder.

One less SQUIP in the world.

One step closer to fixing their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, as always, for reading! I tried to give Rich a bit of a voice in this, but it turned into just saying fuck a lot, so. There's that.
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment or kudos! I love getting feedback!


End file.
